The Night I Got Lucky (17 page)

“It was a gift.”

“And can you describe it for me?”

“It looks like a piece you already have. The frog on the lily pad?”

His eyes grew narrow now and his mouth pursed. “You’re speaking of the Shang dynasty frog, which was part of a pair.”

“Yes, that’s right. I can’t be sure that I have the exact one, but it closely resembles it. And I have no use for it anymore.” I said this last part breezily, as if I was accustomed to donating artifacts to museums around the world. “I’d like to give it to the Institute. If the piece is of interest to you, it’s yours. And if not, you can get rid of it.” I hoped that there was a massive incinerator employed for such a purpose.

“Ms. Rendal ,” Mr. Topper said, taking off his glasses and pressing his thumb into the center of his forehead. “I should tel you that there is quite a legend surrounding that pair of frogs, or at least one of them. Something like the Hope Diamond.”

“You mean where everyone who had the diamond was kil ed or cursed?” I felt a sweat break over my body.

“Wel , yes, that’s the lore associated with the diamond, but in this case, with the Shang frogs, it’s something more mystical. You see, the Art Institute has had the one frog for over a hundred years. But you’re not the first person who’s tried to give us the other half of the pair. The fact is, ah…How should I express this?” He put his glasses back on. “We can’t seem to hold on to the other frog once it’s been given to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s rather embarrassing, but it just disappears. The Institute reported it as a theft the first few times. Now…wel , we’re not sure what to do anymore.”

“But you’d be interested in looking at my frog, wouldn’t you? I mean, it might be a different frog. Or maybe you can hold on to it this time.” I held back from saying,
Please. Please take
this thing off my hands.

He scratched his head. “There’s a whole protocol that has to be fol owed with such a donation. You’d first have to fil out the paperwork—”

“You know what?” I said, interrupting him. “Let me just pop home and get the frog to show you. If it seems like you might be interested we can take it from there, okay?”

Before he could answer, I was out the door. I hailed a cab home and told the cab driver to wait. Inside my condo, I snatched the frog, holding it tight in my fist. I ran back to the cab and asked him to take me back to the Institute.

“Hmm,” Mr. Topper said, when I’d placed it on his desk. “You should know I’m not a spotter.”

“A spotter?”

“Someone who can authenticate these things. But this certainly looks like the other one.” He shook his head. “Remarkable.”

“So, you’l take it?”

“We’l try.” He smiled. “I’l get the paperwork.”

The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

I became desperate. If this was some kind of cosmic test, I was determined to pass. If I could simply destroy the frog for good, I was certain I’d be back to square one, back where I’d started that night I’d seen Blinda weeks before. I could erase everything that had happened and begin again. This time I would do it right. I would try to take Blinda’s advice and look inside for my happiness, but I would also work to get those things I wanted. I would actual y address them. Someone once said that life was not a spectator sport. Unfortunately I’d been sitting on the sidelines lately—way, way back in the bleachers.

Soon, I could think of little else but obliterating the frog. I began watching TV for particularly heinous serial kil er stories, hoping for some tips. I took to carrying the frog around with me during the day, looking for that perfect, destructive opportunity.

On Sunday afternoon, I rode the train to Armitage Avenue and walked the street, heading for Lori’s, my favorite shoe store, thinking that since I couldn’t see my therapist, maybe a little shoe therapy would help. Right before I reached the store, I passed a church. One of the doors was open, letting in the cool May air, and I could see a memorial service inside. There was an open casket at the front, mourners lined up to pay their respects.

I had a thought.

But then a war in my head.
Don’t do it. Don’t even think about it,
the sane side said.
This might work,
my crazy side retorted.
This might actually do it.

Without thinking about it more, I joined the line shuffling to the casket in the front. There were approximately sixty people in the church, most of them murmuring quietly to their neighbor while organ music played in the back. As I reached the casket, I saw a man inside. Either the mortician was not particularly gifted, or this man had been very, very old. His face was as white as the little tufts of hair on his bald head, but there was a serene smile on his face. I panicked. This wasn’t some game. This was a funeral for a very real person, an obviously much better person than me. Guilt twisted my insides. I was a terrible person to intrude.

I shuffled to the left—I had to get out—but then I felt soft pressure on my arm. The priest.

He nodded at me. “It’s okay. We al get scared sometimes. Just pay your respects.”

“No. I…I don’t…I can’t. I didn’t even—”

He nodded again. “It’s okay.” His hand propel ed me toward the casket.

“No, I…” But I saw a few people glancing at me, worried expressions on their faces. This was horrible, disrespectful. But protesting further would only create more of a stir.

I took the few steps to the casket and touched the rim with one hand. For some reason, tears sprang to my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to the man. He looked like someone’s kind grandpa, the type I’d always wanted to have.

The frog was stil in my left hand. I had a thought—
What could it hurt?
More wars in my head. More wavering. I heard the people behind me shuffling their feet impatiently. The organist began another song.

Final y, without thinking about it anymore, I brought my left hand to the casket and dropped the frog inside. It slid down the side of the casket, invisible in the folds of ivory satin.

The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

Spring in Chicago can mean fifteen inches of snow or an eighty-degree scorcher. But one Monday, with the end of May quickly approaching, the city hit on the most perfect of spring weather—a balmy breeze, and puffy white clouds dotting a powder blue sky. I’d spent the weekend trying with more and more ferocity to kil the frog, but it was apparently the
Terminator
of icons, because it would not die. Luckily, Chris had stayed with his parents on Saturday night after a family birthday party, one I’d managed to avoid. I had been nothing but cranky and miserable, and yet when he was around, Chris kept offering food and conversation and love. I wanted that love. More than
anything.
But it was hard to accept it when I felt that I’d wished it into action, rather than Chris having desired it on his own.

Now, on Monday, I walked back from lunch with two of my clients. I’d told them that I had an appointment on Franklin Street, so I could accompany them to their office. Real y, I had no such appointment, and I’d gone total y out of my way, since my office was blocks away, but this was something my first boss had taught me to do; spend as much time with the client as possible, time other people don’t. I’d gotten in the habit, and now it was my routine. But I also loved the client contact, which I got so little of these days, and then there was also the smal fact that by avoiding the office, I was avoiding Evan and his unconditional lust.

As we walked, I smiled and laughed at the appropriate times. I gossiped a little about a crisis I’d heard about at another PR firm. I was putting on a good show. Real y, I was thinking about the goddamned, fucking frog. It was in my black suede saddle bag, tucked inside the zippered pocket. I could feel it there, pulsing, sending out waves, tel ing me that I had no control over my life, that there was no free wil , that it was al preordained, at least for me. I would always be able to have whatever I wanted, and I would never be happy with it.

Right then, we passed the Sears Tower. “Geez,” said Teresa, one of the clients. “I haven’t been up there in a while.” She glanced up, holding her long brown hair back from her face as the wind picked up and barreled down the street.

We al craned our necks, staring up at the black mirrored building that towered over us like a mountain. A piece of white cloth, possibly an old T-shirt, sailed into our field of view and landed near our feet.

“Where did that come from?” I said.

“It’s like someone dropped it,” Teresa said. We al looked up again.

“Can you imagine fal ing from there?” said the other client. “Nothing could survive that.”

I stood, stil looking up. Teresa and John began walking again, then halted a few feet ahead. “Coming, Bil y?” John said.

I managed to drag my gaze away. “I’m going to…um, I’m going to run a few errands, so I’l leave you here.”

I shook their hands, and managed to make suitable farewel comments, yet the whole time, the frog was cal ing louder.
Time for you to go,
I thought.
For good.

I waited a second, watching their backs as they walked away. Then I walked to the door that said, “Sears Tower Observation Deck.”

Hours later, I climbed down one hundred and ten floors from the top of the Sears Tower, stil shaking violently from the force of the wind and the thought that the frog might real y be gone now. When I got outside, a dusky twilight had settled into the Loop. Most people were already on their way home, but a few stragglers walked the streets, a couple of lone cabs circled with roof lights blazing.

I hailed one of them and whispered my address. The experience on the roof had taken the power from my body. I was exhausted.

When I got home, I was relieved to see that Chris wasn’t there. I stripped away my clothes. I turned off al the lights and crawled in bed, pul ing the covers over my head.

When I woke up early, the first rays of sun were pushing through the curtains I’d forgotten to close. I looked first at Chris, asleep with his dark lashes lying against his pale cheeks. I took a breath and rol ed over.

And there was the frog.

I began to cry softly. I couldn’t get rid of it. Nothing would ever change.

“Y
our mother was a voodoo priestess, right?” I asked Odette.

She glanced up from the proposal I’d given her, her almond-shaped eyes amused. “What kind of transition is that? I thought we were talking about my press release.”

I laughed. “Sorry.”

We were in the basement office of her restaurant, having one of our routine evening meetings. Wel , they used to be routine until I became a VP. Now I’d had to make excuses to attend this meeting, instead of the account rep. When I’d waitressed in col ege, the main office there was a pitiful place with rotting wal s and mice droppings. Odette’s office, in sharp contrast, was a vibrant space with brightly colored wal hangings, a wood desk painted yel ow and a comfy blue visitor’s chair.

“It’s al right, Bil y,” Odette said, in her slow southern voice. “You’ve been distracted al night. Tel me why you’re asking about my mother.” Odette was a heavyset, black woman with long braided hair. Sitting back, she drew her braids over her shoulder, the beads on the end clicking soothingly.

“You told me your mother was a voodoo priestess, isn’t that what you said?”

“I can’t possibly imagine why you’re asking me this, but yes, my mother is wel known around New Orleans. Not that most people believe in that stuff, especial y not up North.”

“I believe in it.”

“Since when?” Odette adjusted the col ar of her chef’s whites and smiled patiently, as if she didn’t quite believe me.

“Since…wel , since the last month. Since something happened to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I changed overnight. My whole life did. And I think it was because of this therapist I went to. Or maybe because of this frog she gave me.” I stopped. How to put this into words? I didn’t want her to think I was crazy, like Dr. Hy did.

“You want to explain what you’re talking about?” Odette sounded concerned, but interested.

“Wel …” I drifted off.

“Bil y, I can handle anything. Hit me.”

And so I plowed on. I told her the whole story of Blinda and the frog and how I’d gotten everything I wished for overnight. I explained how al those things I wanted had brought about their own set of issues, which I hadn’t handled very wel .

Odette nodded continuously. She muttered, “Uh-huh,” and “Okay,” and I kept talking. I told her about firing Alexa and how I wanted desperately for things to work with Chris but how he was kil ing me with food and conversation and constant sex. I told her how I missed my mom, how I even missed the obsessing and wondering I used to do about my absentee father. I told her about Evan flirting with me but left out the part about actual y kissing him. It was the one part of my story I hadn’t been able to tel anyone so far. I was too ashamed.

“So I want to erase it,” I said, getting to the end of my story. “I don’t want people to love me or desire me because of some wish I made. I want to just go back to the day this al began so I can get my life right.”

“You want to get your life right?” Odette repeated.

“Yes, exactly,” I said, my voice getting a little louder, faster. “I’m realizing that I had been pretty passive about things. I knew Chris and I had problems, but I didn’t do much to remedy that.

I wanted the vice presidency, but I didn’t do everything I could to make that happen. But I have a hunch that if I get rid of this frog, and al that went on this last month, I can start again and do it properly, you see? I thought I wanted my life to be easy—or at least easier—but what I realized was that I want to be responsible for what I achieve.”

“So it’s the journey that counts, not the destination. And al that New Age crap?”

I laughed. “Yes.”

“Okay, wel you stil haven’t told me what you want from my mother.” Odette shifted her weight, crossing her arms.

“Do you believe what I’m saying?”

Odette smiled kindly. “Of course. I’ve seen much stranger things than this.”